


a new jerseyan and an immigrant walk into a room

by garam



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garam/pseuds/garam
Summary: Hamilton arrives at Burr's doorstep with two binders, a shit ton of papers, and a promise of endorsement.It all goes downhill from there, really.
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	a new jerseyan and an immigrant walk into a room

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the election of 1800 but modern(!!) & Hamilton is running as the federalist candidate for president
> 
> also HAM4HAM is now a friday night podcast where hamilton addresses questions from his campaign donors and periodically checks for email replies from aaron burr. pls accept this

Endorsement meetings didn't usually happen this way. In Burr’s experience, they were premeditated. Meticulous. But on the surface, perfectly civil. He would exchange a few words, share a tight smile, a firm handshake (sometimes even a friendly pat on the shoulder if he felt particularly careless) and it was done. It was how the game was played. And Burr knew a thing or two on how to smile and look pretty. 

But Secretary Hamilton, however, was not an ordinary candidate. 

It was Saturday— he doesn’t know exactly what time but it was probably before six because the sun hadn’t risen yet and Hamilton was still in the white button up he was wearing during last night’s HAM4HAM livestream and Burr knew full well nobody could afford to listen to Hamilton for _eight hours straight_. 

“Can we confer, sir?” He asks, bright and smiling like he wasn’t at Burr’s doorstep at (maybe?) 4 AM. 

Burr was already retreating his head back inside. “No. Goodnight.”

“It’s morning.” Hamilton says through the door, “and it’s _important_ , Burr.”

“You have my email.”

“That you’ll check probably on Monday or fucking never considering you _blocked my account_.”

“Your personal account.”

“—which is the one I use to email you because my business account is flooded and my other business account isn’t even run by me and is probably hacked by now anyway—”

“Goodnight Alexander.” He turns his doorstep lights off. 

“You know how many people would kill for an endorsement from me? Hell, _Jefferson_ let me eat off his French import china and that was just for Columbia. Did you know he has _ducks_ on that shit?” Hamilton starts _pounding_ on his door, “Open this door, motherfucker. You’re getting my help whether you want it or not.” 

Burr opens the door and barely sidesteps from being clobbered by Hamilton’s fist. 

“I already saw your email.” He says blankly, then adds: “Your _business_ email. And I already have the retweet typed. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“Did you get my texts too? I sent texts too.”

Burr pauses, thinks for a moment, sighs, then steps aside to let Hamilton in.

“Ten minutes.” He warns. Hamilton saunters in and it’s only when he’s inside that Burr sees the binders he has tucked under each arm. Two inch binders crammed with at least four inches of folders and papers, stapled and marked with post-its on what looks to be every other page. Burr flatlines. 

“Ten minutes.” Hamilton agrees. 

  


***

  


It was not ten minutes. 

To be precise, it had been ninety minutes and Hamilton’s feet were up on his countertop and Burr was cooking salmon because A) he was hungry and B) an endorsement depended on accomodation and Burr was more than enough of a gentleman to carry them both through the morning if he had to. 

“Listen listen listen,” Hamilton says as Burr starts to pay more attention to the salmon than to him, “I have the tweet typed out and everything. I was gonna send it out yesterday—”

“ _Before_ I agreed to it?”

“I sent an email asking you before my HAM4HAM— which, might I add, you read and _didn’t respond to_ ,” Hamilton accuses, jabbing his fork in Burr’s direction, “You never do that to Van Ness or Livingston. That’s pretty irresponsible and _certainly_ unbecoming of a future POTUS. What if I have important government shit to tell you?”

“Take a card from my secretary,” Burr says, “The president doesn’t have time to put everything on hold whenever you have something to say.”

“Washington did.” Hamilton says, “And _I_ was his secretary then.”

“ _Treasury_ secretary,” Burr corrects, “Don’t you know your own positions?”

“Bah. Whatever.” 

Hamilton bends to pick up one of his binders and starts aggressively flipping through. “Listen, we only got one shot. It’s gotta be something good,” He insists, “I wrote a few drafts for your retweet that you can look at and uh, ‘burr’-ify if you have to.” 

Burr fishes the fillets out of the pan and slides one over to Hamilton. “Don’t get salmon all over your papers.” He says. 

“They’re laminated.” Hamilton assures. He pulls out a sheet from one of his folders and slides it towards him. Burr can already see the default arial font covering the _entire fucking page_ and tries not to sigh. 

_In addition to my sincerest thanks, I give my unconditional acceptance of Alexander Hamilton’s endorsement, a man whom I greatly admire and respect as a fellow candidate and American. Hamilton was a formidable opponent and one whom I firmly and solemnly believe will be pivotal to the shaping of_ — Burr already wants to snap his own neck. 

“Do you take constructive criticism?” He asks. 

“No.” 

“Your tweet is shit,” Burr says, “and I’m doomed.”

“That’s not constructive criticism, and no _we’re_ not,” Hamilton pushes the paper closer to him, “This and a couple policy changes and you’re set. I’m not going through another four years of Jefferson. I can’t walk two feet in the White House without inhaling his cologne or seeing his stupid dem-rep interns bouncing around, doing whatever the fuck. Do you know SCAM4HAM? They made a _hashtag_ just to talk shit about me. Imagine having the audacity to be such a fucking asshole on _presidential wifi_ —”

“This doesn’t even sound like me,” Burr complains, taking a closer look at the paper, “You write like somebody from the 18th century.” The last time he had checked Hamilton’s twitter was the announcement for last night’s HAM4HAM and he remembered he sounded normal _then_. 

“Then fix it! I don’t care!” Hamilton snaps, “Just don’t change the meat of it.”

Burr grimaces. He didn’t force himself awake before the asscrack of dawn just for Hamilton to yell at him and threaten him with his own silverware. He walks away to get his own salmon, leaving an angry Hamilton smoldering at the counter. Pulling out a plate, he hears furious scribbling behind him and turns to see Hamilton armed with a ballpoint pen, angrily editing his draft. 

“What’s a synonym for sincerest?” He asks. 

“Why don’t you just write ‘Thank you, Secretary Hamilton’?”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Hamilton who grumbles and starts scribbling harder on his page. Burr sits down to eat. 

“You better thank god I came along,” Hamilton mutters, “No, better yet, thank me. I skipped a canoe ride with Eliza to come here.”

“I’m sure it was an easy decision.” 

“It wasn’t,” Hamilton sulks, “Angelica yelled at me. I’m promised a trip to the Coca Cola museum next Sunday.” 

“You’re off the presidential bid. You’ll manage.”

“What, am I supposed to be live tweeting you debate points while I taste test lime sodas? No, it’s gotta be one or the other,” Hamilton violently scribbles out another line, “And I don’t have time to haul ass to Atlanta. For fuck’s sake, Georgia’s not even a _swing state_.”

“Go to a Varsity,” Burr suggests, “Tell the staff I’ll go there when I’m president. I’m sure Jefferson never will.” He leans forward to look over Hamilton’s paper. 

“For the love of god, _remove_ that semicolon,” Burr deadpans, “You are insufferable.”

Hamilton quickly shields the paper from him. “Semicolons are great,” He insists, “It’s the only way you can say multiple sentences in one; hell, I once strung together seven sentences with semicolons; _well_ technically, it was just one—”

Hamilton suddenly yelps as Burr stands up and sweeps the paper from under him. 

“If you’re not going to eat, you can go back home in time for that canoe ride and avoid Atlanta altogether,” Burr says, “I’ll wait for your tweet.”

Hamilton shoots up from his stool and grabs for his paper— which Burr easily lifts out of his reach. “No no, we still haven’t discussed some things.” He insists, “My endorsement comes at a _price_.”

Burr raises an eyebrow. 

“No it doesn’t,” He says, “There’s no other candidate to endorse besides Jefferson.”

“But endorsements depend on _compromise_.”

“I gave you salmon.”

“Oh what-the-fuck ever.” Hamilton says, “I’ve got bigger fish to fry. No pun intended.”

“What do you want?” Burr inquires.

“It’s not what _I_ want— it's what you _need_. Believe me, I got a list of shit you need to do,” Hamilton pulls out another binder and fingers through the folders inside. He whips out a sheet, straightens it out with a flourish, and clears his throat. Burr braces himself, “‘As President, Aaron Burr will: instill a comprehensible federal plan to acknowledge the national debt.’”

“No.”

“Fuck, Aaron,” Hamilton groans, lowering his paper, “Don’t do me like this.” 

“You’re not bringing your bipartisan warfare into my campaign, Hamilton.” Burr says firmly.

“ _Bipartisan warfare_? What the fuck?” Hamilton says, “How can you be so dry and salty yet so melodramatic? It’s _national debt_.”

“Christ,” Burr sighs, “What else do you have?”

“No no. No dodging, Burr. Sir. It only gets worse from here,” Hamilton snaps, waving his paper all up in Burr’s face, “National debt is _real_. Bold Lato, 60 size font. On your website header _now_ , Aaron.”

“And isolate the moderate vote,” Burr says flatly, “The only buffer I’ll have against the Jeffersonians once they realize _Alexander Hamilton_ has resigned and federalized _my_ campaign.”

“Oh yeah,” Hamilton mocks, “Jefferson and his _Jeffersonians_ against me and my… my…”

“Hamiltonians,” Burr says helpfully. 

“Hamiltonians,” Hamilton says affirmingly and he’s got that glint in his eyes that triggers Burr’s fight or flight reflexes, “My Hamiltonians and your… supporters. Together. Against our common enemy. Think about it, Burr. It could _work_.”

“Your supporters will be confused.” Burr refutes.

“They will.” Hamilton acknowledges.

“They might disavow you.”

“They might. But I’m thinking of the country here. What’s good for all of us.”

Burr raises an eyebrow. “And you think I'm the man?”

“Over Jefferson? Any day. Sometimes you just gotta choose the lesser evil.”

Burr raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m an evil?” He says, “If I had to choose between two evils, Secretary Hamilton, I wouldn't choose at all.” 

“Of course you wouldn't. That’s why you’ll lose. Without my endorsement, that is.” Hamilton leans back against his chair and smiles, like he had just said something so smart. Burr frowns. 

“You’re still not getting your debt plan, _Hamilton_.” He deadpans.

Now it’s Hamilton’s turn to frown. “Oh come the fuck on,” he whines, “But I’m being so _nice_.”

“You just called me evil.”

“Okay, but have you ever heard the term _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant, my ass,” Hamilton snaps, “How well do you think your moderacy’s going to cushion you when Jefferson starts pulling that _We the People_ bullshit in the debates again? Georgia and the Carolinas and the lot eat that shit up, and they _hate_ you down there, Burr.”

“I can’t risk your plan,” Burr maintains, “I need those moderates.”

“No, you need the urban cities, the big banks. You need New York and Massachusetts. You need the federalists, Burr. You need _me_.”

He doesn’t reply. Hamilton grimaces, and Burr can tell he’s getting desperate.

“Every week, I have to go back to DC to watch Adams return from his sixteenth vacation from Barbados to tank _my_ goddamn party and slander _my_ name in front of Congress,” Hamilton complains, “And now I have these ‘new generation’ federalists on the rise, saying that I’m too elitist or too unpopular or that my ideas are too authoritarian. And I _know_ your people are giving you shit too.

“But this, this thing here. Us together,” Hamilton wags a finger between them, “This’ll _work_. But I need to bring back _something_ to convince Adams and the rest of his circlejerk next week.

“A bridge, Burr. That’s all I’m asking for here. We can sort everything else out later, but I _need_ your OK on the debt plan, _at least_ ,” He pleads, “Do you want me to get on my knees? I can get on my knees.”

Burr blinks. On one hand, he couldn't risk a federalist policy adoption but. 

_Well_.

He _was_ an opportunist and he was cognizant enough to admit that the Democratic Republican Party wasn't what he had dreamed it to be during the honeymoon years of his career, when he was still a freshman senator in upscale New York. No, since the launch of his campaign in February last year, he had faced targeted jabs, media slanders, poll erasures, and practically every other half-assed sabotage and inconvenience imaginable— and his stance among his colleagues was painfully apparent: Jefferson had twenty-one minutes of watchtime during the last debate; Burr had only eleven. Two Democratic Republicans had dropped out last Monday and both endorsements had gone to Jefferson; Burr had only one. Hamilton. 

Hamilton, who had sought him out in the middle of the night with files and papers and _promises_ and… 

The Federalists —or at the very least, Hamilton— _needed him_. 

And Burr needed that win in November. He really _really_ needed it. Like he had never needed anything else before in his life. 

Not to mention, he also really _really_ did not want to see Alexander on his knees. 

In the end, it’s only when the bastard starts to lower a leg onto the ground that Burr makes his decision.

“I’ll run it over with Van Ness and the campaign,” Burr says, “In the meantime, I’ll retweet your endorsement.” 

And Hamilton, with both shins on the ground, somehow _still_ doesn’t look satisfied.

“With a thank you.” Hamilton presses. 

Burr blinks, offended. “I _will_ write a thank you.” He wasn’t a heathen.

“No, a long one. One where you talk about how articulate I am with my words, how I speak to the collective yearning of the American people through the dynamism and boldness of my policies, how you can’t wait to work with me to bring a new era of utopism to the very fabric of our nation…”

In all honesty, Burr just wanted Hamilton to stop being so close to crotch-level. “Of course.”

“—and you have to mention the national debt.”

“No.” Burr deadpans.

“You will,” Hamilton says stubbornly, “I’m not endorsing you if you don't.”

“Yes you will.” says Burr and now it’s his turn to smile, “Haven’t you ever heard of the term _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_?”

Hamilton opens his mouth to protest but pauses, thinks for a moment, sighs, then climbs back into his seat in defeat. 

“In the next debate then.” He settles. 

Burr sits back down too, satisfied. He was always a good compromiser.

“In the next debate,” he agrees. 

After a short pause, Hamilton smiles back. It’s not like his, Burr notices, it shows teeth. 

It was going to be a long eight months until November.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think or if u want more of this hamburr presidential boogaloo


End file.
